


Every Few Nights to Stay Sane

by dapplegrim



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blood Drinking, Carry On Quarantine, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Seventh Year, baz drinks simon's blood, baz has no way to get blood, baz likes simon, but it's the one we're all here for, inspired by COVID-19 quarantine, just made up disease, like only the last chapter is porn, not corona fic, simon and baz are stuck together, simon likes being bitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapplegrim/pseuds/dapplegrim
Summary: Devil's Delirium is a highly contagious disease sweeping through Watford School of Magicks. Everyone on school grounds is quarantined in their rooms and not allowed to leave for any reason. For most people, that's just fine. For Baz, it's a disaster. Will he be able to last two weeks without any blood-- or will he give in to his nature?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 40
Kudos: 225





	1. We're stuck with each other, I guess...

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking on AO3 for years without making an account. This is my first fic and I'm still working on writing Simon and Baz in character lol. Writing about an actual COVID-19 quarantine felt a little weird but I've been feeling the quarantine vibes, so I just kinda made up a random disease instead (DeViL's DeLiRiUm).
> 
> Hope you all are staying safe and having a not horrible time quarantining/social distancing!

**Simon**

When I wake up in the morning, something feels different. I almost feel like I can smell food, but that can’t be right. Baz never eats anything but salt and vinegar crisps in here and this smells more like biscuits. I think I’m just so hungry that I’m hallucinating smells (is that even a thing?). I groan— so does my stomach— and rub my eyes, finally opening them.

Shit. Sunlight is pouring through the window and it’s bright, far too bright. I fumble around on my nightstand until I finally get ahold of my clock. It confirms what the sun’s already told me: I’ve overslept by at least two hours. Why didn’t Baz wake me? I mean, I know he’s evil and a vampire and he wants me dead, but he is my roommate. There are certain things that your roommate should just do, no matter how much they want to push you down a flight of stairs. Or three.

I bet he’ll love it when I walk into class halfway through Elocution. He’ll arch one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows (they’re honestly ridiculous— I’m convinced he magicks them) and smirk at me the way he always does. Like I need reminding that he’s posh and perfect and I’m a bloody mess.

I groan and roll out of bed, nearly falling on my face in the process. My stomach once again reminds me that I would normally have eaten by now, but breakfast is long over. Hopefully Penny, saint that she is, thought to nick me some scones from the dining hall. 

I’m walking toward the bathroom, in the process of deciding whether or not I have time for a shower before I humiliate myself in front of Baz and everyone else, when the bathroom door opens. Out walks Baz, right in front of me, as though he’s been summoned just by my thinking about him. “Baz!” I squeak.

“Snow,” he drawls. When I don’t move, he sighs. “What exactly do you want?”

“I— uh, why are you? I mean—“

**Baz**

Snow is standing in front of me, stammering and carrying on. “Spit it out,” I tell him. I would normally give him a harder time, but most of my effort is being funneled into hiding the panic that’s been steadily building inside me for the past couple of hours. 

“What are you still doing here? Why aren’t you in class?” he finally bursts out. I give him a hard stare.

“First of all, Snow, get out of my way now or I will find an extremely unpleasant way to remove you from it,” I tell him. He gives me a pouty look that I definitely do not find wildly attractive and works his jaw a bit, but takes a step back. “Second of all, I know being the chosen one means that you’re above such things, but perhaps you could trouble yourself to read the large, brightly colored announcement posted on our door. ”

He scowls at me and stomps over to investigate whilst I settle onto my neatly made bed, cross my legs, and call out behind him, “let me know if you need help reading any of the big words, Snow.”

**Simon**

Sometimes I wonder what living with Baz would be like if he didn’t constantly make me want to scream and rip my hair out. ‘Big words’ my arse. It’s times like these that make me realize there is no universe in which Basilton Pitch isn’t an absolute prick. Still, I do feel a bit dim for not noticing the sheet posted on the door. Baz was right about one thing; it’s hard to miss.

I unceremoniously rip the paper down and read it. Then read it again. And again. I have no trouble understanding what it says— that’s not the problem. The issue is that I hope to all things magick I’m reading it wrong.

_This is a notice to all students that Watford School of Magicks will be going into a mandatory student and staff quarantine, effective immediately. Students’ rooms have all been magickally sealed, and any attempt to exit one’s room will result in immediate expulsion._

_These measures are being taken due to last night’s discovery of multiple student cases of Devil’s Delirium, a highly contagious magickal disease that causes psychotic behavior, extreme distress, and occasional death. It should not remain in anyone’s system longer than two weeks, and as such, this is how long we will all be quarantining. If you begin to experience symptoms, send **a little bird** to a member of the faculty._

_Food will appear in students’ rooms at mealtimes and be available for an hour and a half before dishes are recalled the kitchens to be washed. Toiletries, towels, and washrags will be available upon request._

_Cordially,  
The Mage_

Two weeks without leaving the room. The room I share. With Baz. Who happens to hate me. Merlin, even with the anathema I’ll be lucky to make it out of here in one piece.

I turn to Baz. “So, uh, we’re stuck with each other, I guess.” His face is stone and he’s looking at me with narrowed eyes, like I’m still missing the entire point.

“Yes, Snow. I guess we are.”

**Baz**

Sometimes I don’t understand Simon Snow. He obviously looks uncomfortable at the prospect of our being stuck together for two weeks, at something of a loss for words, even, but he doesn’t look afraid. He should be afraid. He just hasn’t realized it yet.

With his bronze curls and his moles, his bright eyes and his tawny skin, he’s always looked like something I would eat. But two weeks with no way of getting blood… Simon isn’t safe here. And I’m not either, of course. If I end up draining Snow I’ll be killed or imprisoned. Or maybe the Mage will just snap my wand, pull out my fangs, and have me stricken. I can already imagine father’s reaction. The faux disappointed shaking of his head. _“I never knew what he was,”_ he’ll say. _“I never would have allowed him to carry on…”_ Always the politician first and foremost. Always thinking of himself and how he’s seen by the coven and the families and to hell with everyone else.

My only way forward is restraint. If I try to leave to hunt, I’m expelled. If I try to drain Snow, I’m as good as dead (and I’d deserve it, too). Restraint. No kissing Snow, no killing him, no eyeing him from across the room and imagining what it would be like to run my fingers through his curls, or the sounds he might make if I gave them a tug. I just need to last two weeks.

**Simon**

Baz has been staring into space for a while now and it’s starting to get weird. I can see him plotting in that supervillain brain of his. Probably how to kill me without violating the anathema. Or maybe just how to make me wish I was dead.

When he finally reaches a decision, I can see it in his face even before he opens his mouth. His voice is cold and impersonal. “Just stay away from me, Snow. Don’t speak to me, don’t bother me, don’t even get near me.” He proceeds to pull out his wand and point it at the center of our room, in the middle of our beds, and casts “ **This is where I draw the line.** ” A bright red line appears along the floor and he nods, satisfied. “If you know what’s good for you, you'll stay on your side,” he sneers. There’s something about his face that doesn’t add up, though. He doesn’t just look annoyed or bored, which are basically his only two expressions. He looks terrified. And if Baz is afraid, maybe I should be too.


	2. Baz isn't okay

**Baz**

It’s been four days since quarantine started. The first night was manageable— I’d hunted the night before and the catacombs were about ten rats lighter when I left. The second night was… unpleasant. I’d spent the first part of the day eating much more than was prudent when meals arrived, trying to fill the growing void I felt. At first, it almost felt like it was working. My body was craving _something_ and I was providing it. By the time I finished my lunch, though, I felt twice as awful as when I woke up. Instead of half of me being satisfied and half of me being thirsty, half of me ached from overeating and the other half burned from thirst. The third night was similar in quality to the second because despite being even thirstier, the pain from gorging myself had gone away.

The one mildly entertaining aspect of this situation has been Snow’s confusion. I don’t think he’s ever seen me eat before, let alone shovel helping after helping of food into my mouth. Mind you, I’ve eaten all of my meals on my bed facing the wall so he can’t see my fangs pop. But still. 

I think I actually ate more than him the second day, which is equal parts impressive and horrifying. 

I’m paler than normal, too. And I have dark shadows under my eyes that look even darker because of how pale the rest of my face is. Part of me hoped Snow wouldn’t notice the difference, but I should have known better. He’s been watching me constantly for years, long enough to know how I should look. How I literally _always_ look. Every time he thinks I’m not paying attention, the bugger stares straight at me— doesn’t even keep his head still. Turns it right toward me, furrows his eyebrows, and stares for at least ten seconds. I’m tempted to call him on it just to make him blush. But I don’t, because the last thing I need is to watch the blood rush to Simon Snow’s face and neck when he’s already been smelling infinitely more mouthwatering than usual. 

So I sit on my bed and don’t say a word. Don’t look at him. Do my best not to smell him (honestly, I can’t _not_ smell him. It’s like trying not to smell fresh-baked cinnamon rolls when they come out of the oven). I don’t even want to think about him (so, obviously, he’s all I can think about).

Tonight is agony. I’m laying on my bed, facing the wall, completely enveloped in my bedding, because my fangs officially will no longer retract. I have a burning sensation just above my stomach. The same area feels like it’s collapsing inward, like I’m imploding. I’ve barely eaten today. Hunger is nothing compared to my thirst.

I’m also salivating nonstop, now— disgusting, I know— and my jaw is starting to tingle. My entire awareness is comprised of my general discomfort, my thirst, and the smell of Snow. Always the smell of Snow.

**Simon**

Something’s up with Baz. He looks seriously ill. At first, I thought maybe he had Satan’s Schadenfreude or whatever the hell this disease is called, but none of the symptoms match. He’s just miserable. He’s pale and tired and getting more so every day. One day he was eating like a madman, and the next he was barely eating at all. I’ve never even seen him eat, period. 

What’s really concerning is that he hasn’t insulted me once in the past four days. Hasn’t made fun of me, sneered at me, smirked at me, nothing. In fact, he hasn’t even looked at me. Sometimes I just want to cross over that stupid red line to his side of the room and jump up and down on his bed. Or wave my hand around in front of his face. Something. Anything to know that he’s okay. Well, he’s clearly not okay. But to know that he’s real and alive, at least. Well, clearly he’s not _alive_ either. His nightly trips to the catacombs prove that. 

_Oh_. Baz isn’t alive. Because Baz is a vampire. And Baz isn’t ok because this is his fourth night without blood— he’s had no way of getting any. It’s not like the Red Cross uses our room as a storage space.

Suddenly, I understand the look Baz gave me that first morning, the look that said I was missing something essential about this whole situation. I feel like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner. The only source of blood in this room is me.


	3. Getting from point A to point B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has a nightmare and there is clearly only one course of action for Simon ;)

**Simon**

It’s probably one in the morning and I think Baz is having a nightmare. I’m sure he’s had his share— I know I’d have nightmares if my mum was killed by vampires— but I’ve never actually _seen_ him have one. It’s horrible. He’s always so untouchable; he never shows anything that even resembles weakness or vulnerability. And yet here he is, thrashing in his sheets, gasping and sobbing. 

One bad dream shouldn’t change the way I look at him, but somehow it does. He’s not evil, he’s just a boy dealing with some really difficult shit. And then he chokes out my name, not Snow but “Simon.” And his voice is so broken it makes my chest ache.

I don’t think I can go back to sleep, not just because Baz is extraordinarily noisy when he has nightmares, but because I can’t just leave him to suffer through this alone. He’s got to be starving (thirsty? thirsty doesn’t really sound as urgent as the situation requires) and he’s clearly having some sort of horrible dream that I’m somehow a part of. Before I can think too much about how this really isn’t safe because, right now, I’m just about the most compelling midnight snack a starving teen vampire could find, I pull back my sheets and get out of bed, stumbling forward until I’m right in front of the thick red line on our floor— the one I am very much _not_ supposed to cross. It occurs to me that the line could be cursed. It would be very _Baz_ thing to do, but I’m counting on the fact that he’s had more important things on his mind recently. I take a deep breath and stride over it, stopping right in front of Baz’s bed and sighing with relief when I don’t turn into a house plant.

He’s trembling now. I put my hand on his shoulder and try to shake him awake, but it doesn’t work. So I sit down on his bed and start stroking his hair. It’s soft— really soft— and I think this may actually be working. He’s not trembling quite as much, and the sobbing is calming down to quieter snuffles and whimpers. All I want is for him to be okay. Or to at least hold him and tell him he’ll be okay— that we’ll both be okay. So I do.

I lay down on top of his covers (getting under them seems too invasive, but I guess it doesn’t really matter because it’s also probably a little invasive when I press my chest to his back and wrap my arms around his waist). He’s taller than me, so the logistics are less than ideal, but something about this still feels perfectly right. Like every night for the past seven years, I should have been cradling Baz in my arms and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Which is thoroughly confusing, but it’s just him and me stuck in this room for a while longer, so I still have some time before I have to think about that. For now, I just relax into the feeling of Baz’s breathing slowing and his body calming. 

**Baz**

When I wake up in the morning on the fifth day of quarantine, I still feel miserable (obviously), but not as horrible as I expected to. The longer I’ve been going without blood, the colder and stiffer I’ve been. Today I feel warm, though. Like I’ve been laying out in the sun. My fangs have even retracted for the time being. I keep my eyes closed and melt into the feeling. 

Until I feel a warm puff of air against the back of my neck. I immediately open my eyes and take stock of the situation— the situation being Simon Snow spooning me. Literally _spooning_ me. Alastair Crowley, I must still be asleep because _this_ would never actually happen. Ever. Except maybe in one of my more indulgent dreams. After I give myself a few overly enthusiastic pinches— enough to know that this is somehow reality— I slowly maneuver in Snow’s arms so that we’re face to face, just inches apart. “Snow?” I say it softly, trying to keep my tone neutral. I don’t want to seem vulnerable, but Merlin knows I don’t want to scare him away either.

When his eyes stay firmly shut, I nudge his shin through the sheets with my toe. His breathing hitches slightly and I do it again. His eyes finally flutter open and the way they’re shining in the morning sunlight is… something. He’s golden. Everything is golden. 

“Snow… what are you doing in my bed?” I’m still speaking gently, trying to preserve some of whatever this is. His mouth opens a little and there’s an expression on his face that I can’t quite read. His arms are still around my waist and I’m not moving at all. It feels like the moment I draw attention to how close we are, he’ll pull away. I never want him to pull away.

He finally says, “You were having a nightmare.” 

I close my eyes for a moment and try to collect my thoughts. His smell and my hunger are making it hard enough to think as it is. “I know I had a nightmare last night, Snow, but I’m having some trouble getting from point A to point B. Point A being my having a nightmare and point B being my waking up with your morning wood pressed against my arse.” Not that I’m complaining, but he doesn’t necessarily have to know that.

He blushes but still doesn’t give in. “You called my name,” he says, almost shyly. “I thought that maybe… I don’t know… That maybe I could help. And I did.” 

I don’t say anything, just look away. I did call his name last night, but I don’t deserve his help. I had dreamt about draining him and dropping his body into a ravine. The worst part was that the version of me in the dream didn’t feel a thing. He had given in to the monster. The real me, the me that was watching my lookalike murder Snow, was horrified and broken. That’s when I cried his name. In mourning. 

I’ve never been more glad being a vampire isn’t like in the movies, or in my dream, for that matter. Just because I’m starving doesn’t mean that I lose total control of myself. It’s agonizing, but I’m not just going to pounce on Snow like an animal. Probably. Hopefully. But who knows where I’ll be after a few more days without blood.

“Baz,” he says quietly, “how often do you need blood?” It shocks me like a slap in the face. I know he didn’t realize the major problem with this situation when we were first quarantined. Yes, I assumed it would come to him eventually, but why he would choose now of all times to be in such close proximity after realizing what’s at stake is beyond me. 

I could try to deny it but we’re still less than halfway through this thing and I’m already wasting away. There’ll be no denying what I am by the end of this, so there’s no point in doing it now. I sigh and pull out of his arms, raising myself to a sitting position and hugging my knees to my chest. “Every night to feel good. Every few nights to stay sane.” I keep my eyes down.

He sits up too, leaning back on his hands. “Baz….” The way he says my name makes me feel like crying. He says it like he understands; like it’s okay. Like what _I am_ is okay. “If you bit someone... would they have to turn?” I don’t understand where this is going.

“I— no. I can choose whether there’s—” I have to force the word out— “venom. In the bite.” He nods, like what I said somehow means something.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay, what?”

And then he takes my chin and pulls my face toward his. I think he might kiss me; one final goodbye before I waste away to nothing. Maybe it would be worth it. 

But then, he tilts his head to the side and offers me his neck. “Try not to kill me, okay?”

The bloody idiot has the nerve to smile at me when he says it. I should say no. I should shove him off my bed or throw him out the window, into the moat. But my fangs are already out. I’m so hungry and this might be my only chance. I close my eyes and cup his neck with one hand, resting the other on his shoulder.

And then I bite.


	4. Bite Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah they do stuff. Baz needs to feed and neither one of them expects how good it feels. Needless to say, things escalate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this took me a ridiculous amount of time to finish. The first three chapters were written in a matter of days and the last one took months of me being too afraid to write it. This is my first time writing smut as anything other than a joke and I was pretty much just worried about doing it wrong or disappointing people or whatever. It's not perfect, but it never will be and I just had to realize that.
> 
> I want to say thank you soooooooo much to every single person who left a comment. You folks are the reason I finished this fic. Especially those who actively came back and looked for it after I went so long without posting. I never realized how much of an impact comments could make until I wrote my own fic, and it literally wasn't even long at all lol so you guys didn't even have a big reason to be invested. 
> 
> So yeah, her ya go. Hopefully I didn't screw it up too much haha.

**Simon**

I thought Baz biting me would be somewhat uncomfortable, or at least tickle or pinch or something. But the moment his fangs sink into my neck, I realize how wrong I was. It feels _incredible_.

What really gets me, though, is when he starts to drink. I feel his lips against my neck, his hands pulling me closer; and where his fangs are drawing blood… I feel white-hot. It’s how I always imagined kissing would make me feel; what I never found with Agatha. And then his knee brushes against my thigh and I can’t help it. I choke out a low, desperate moan. Baz makes a sound deep in his throat— I think it’s a growl— and shifts so that he’s straddling me. 

**Baz**

I feel good for the first time in days. No, I feel great for the first time in years. I’m sitting rock-hard in Snow’s lap while feasting on his blood like some kind of creature of the night (which. I am.) And he’s not repulsed or pushing me away. _He’s hard, too_. I remove my fangs from his neck— I’ve had enough and I don’t want to hurt him— and lick the drops of blood welling up from his puncture marks, letting my tongue trail to the mole just below his jaw. I kiss it, lightly at first, but then deeper and deeper until I’m unabashedly sucking on it. Next I start working my way up, grazing my teeth along his jaw and breathing in his scent. It’s a mix of his normal warm smokiness and something saltier, headier. I kiss the moles along his cheeks and finally reach his lips. It’s just a gentle brush, barely a kiss. I’ve wanted this for so long but somehow I still have no idea how to continue. How to kiss Simon Snow. What if he realizes I’m not alive enough for him, that I never will be? 

**Simon**

I can feel Baz tensing up— can see the uncertainty in his eyes. I lean my forehead against his and whisper into the air we’re sharing. “Do you want this?” 

“Of course,” he breathes back. “I just… how can you?”

That’s it. I take him by the back of the neck and kiss him, _really_ kiss him. He just needs to stop thinking like this. Like he’s anything but infuriatingly perfect. 

**Baz**

Simon is kissing me and it’s better than anything I could have imagined. And he wants this. He wants me. And maybe he’ll change his mind, but that’s a problem for the future. Right now, I just want to feel this. 

I wind my fingers into his curls and take his bottom lip between my teeth, nipping at it and then sucking on it until it’s wet and swollen. Simon takes a sharp breath and arches his back, grinding against me. My cock is straining against my pants and the friction makes me gasp. I grab his ass and pull him even closer (which I didn’t even realize was possible).

**Simon**

I can’t think. Baz is pressed against me and even though I can pretty much feel every inch of him, all I want is to feel more. When I palm between his legs, his eyes roll back and he moans. His hair is all mussed and falling in his face and there’s something about him that just feels different. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him without every one of his defenses up. He’s so fucking beautiful it makes me ache. 

I lean my cheek against his and direct my attention to his pyjama bottoms, fumbling with the velvet ties (bloody pretentious if you ask me, but also extremely hot). The bottoms come down and the pants follow. It figures that his cock would be as perfect as the rest of him.

I take him in my hand and use my thumb to draw long, slow circles around his slit, relishing the beads of moisture that start to appear. Baz lets out a whimper and turns his head away, covering his mouth with one hand. His fangs must have popped, and just the thought brings me a whole new level of arousal. With my free hand, I draw down his arm and whisper in his ear, “bite me.” 

His eyes go wide for a moment, but incredulity quickly morphs into excitement. He takes my wrist and brushes it with his lips before slowly and firmly sinking in his teeth. There’s nothing I can do but bask in the pleasure and do my best to reciprocate it. 

**Baz**

I’m drinking Simon’s blood again. This time, though, I’m able to pace myself. It’s more about the sensation of having my teeth in him than it is taking his blood, which is good because I really can't even focus on feeding. In fact, I’m barely capable of coherent thought because _Simon Snow is currently stroking my cock_.

I don’t think I’ve ever been overwhelmed by so many positive sensations at one time. Snow’s eyes are bright and his bronze curls are an absolute mess and his hands are trailing fire everywhere he touches. His hand on my cock is slow and steady. At first he only uses his thumb, so when he suddenly takes me into his hand and strokes me between the rest of his fingers, still lazily brushing over my slit with the pad of his thumb, I gasp into his wrist. He takes my reaction as a cue to speed up, and starts pumping harder and faster. I’m lost to pleasure. Simon looks like he’s in a total haze, too, but then he looks straight into my eyes and murmurs, “Baz,” and I can’t hold back any longer. I come onto the bed sheets, releasing Simon’s wrist from my fangs and throwing my head back. Breathing his name because it’s the only thing I can think.

**Simon**

Baz just came under my hands, which is a high I’ll be riding into next year. He’s slick with sweat and… other things, and his face is so open, so easy to read. Who knew a hand job is all it takes to make him let down his guard. He’s looking at me, grinning, and he said my name when it happened. Does that mean something?

Baz softly pulls my arm to his lips, and I realize that blood has started pooling in the puncture marks on my wrist, and now the movement has it trailing scarlet lines down my forearm. He puts his mouth just above my elbow and drags his tongue over the red trails, stopping a few times to kiss and suck on the delicate skin of my forearm until bruises bloom. When he reaches the original puncture marks, he swirls his tongue over them, trying to catch every drop of blood. All I can think about is his tongue making the same motion somewhere else.

As if he’s read my mind, Baz’s attention turns to my lap. He just looks down for a second, and when I follow his gaze, I see that a single drop of blood fell onto my pyjama bottoms, right over my groin. It hasn’t even soaked in yet, still a single glittering bead. Baz pushes me down onto my back and slowly lowers himself until his lips are inches from where my cock is straining against my pants. He eyes the drop of blood, and then he lowers his head even further and licks it. His tongue rubs against my cock through the rough fabric of my pyjamas and I feel like I’m going to explode. I grind up against his mouth, desperate for more.

Baz complies, applying even more pressure this time as he slides his wet tongue over the fabric, starting near my navel and working his way down. When he reaches the end of my bulge, he opens his mouth and wraps his lips around the tip of my cock. Gasping, I wait for his head to come back up before quickly shedding the layers between his mouth and my cock. 

When Baz takes me in his mouth, I feel dizzy with bliss, but also a little bit panicked. Because this feels so good I can’t imagine never having it again. Because what if this is a one time thing that he just expects us both to forget about later? Because I think I might really like this, not just the physical part, but _Baz_. I think I might really like Baz.

**Baz**

Simon is everything. He’s all I’ve wanted for years and I just… I just want him to want me too.

I want to bring him scones in the morning and hold his hand while he makes bad vampire jokes and kisses me on the cheek. I want to take him home for Christmas, father be damned. 

**Simon**

There’s something in Baz’s eyes, like he’s having a really good dream or something. They’re… hopeful? And if Baz can hope, I can too. I surrender myself to his touch.

He’s doing that thing with his tongue, swirling it in circles while he sucks on my head and it’s giving me a high better than any Normal drug ever could. He speeds up and takes more of me into his mouth, bobbing his head and setting my nerve endings on fire. I moan and thrust into him, exulting in the feeling of his wet lips closed around my shaft and the back of his mouth pressing against my arousal. I’m panting and Baz is stroking my balls and all I can do is thrust faster and harder until I’m right at the edge of climax. 

And then Baz drags his teeth lightly (so lightly) down my length and that’s it. I come in Baz’s mouth, his hair tangled in my fingers, his name on my lips. He holds my gaze and swallows every last bit of my load. The look on his face will be in my dreams for the rest of my life.

**EPILOGUE**

**Baz**

We’ve been laying in bed for most of today. Simon apparently has an unhealthy obsession with my hair. At one point a few hours ago he just mumbled, “Finally, I’m allowed to touch it,” and he hasn’t stopped stroking it since. Not that I’m complaining.

We haven’t talked much, so far. I know why I haven’t, being in the much more vulnerable position (I’ve been in love with Simon for years and am actually gay. Is he gay? Does this make him gay?).

**Simon**

Am I gay? Does having sex with Baz make me gay? Was that even real sex if there wasn’t penetration? I need to stop thinking.

All I know is that I liked what we did earlier (like, a lot) and I like laying next to Baz and touching his hair and murmuring in his ear. Maybe that’s enough for now.

**Baz**

Simon rolls onto his side and stares into my eyes. “Are you gay, Baz?”

I sigh. “Yes, Snow. I’m gay.”

He nods matter-of-factly and falls deep into thought. “I don’t know if I am.” I look away.

“Okay.”

“I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

“Save it Snow, I know when I’m being rejected. In fact, I don’t even know why you think you can reject me when you’re the one who instigated all of this.”

“No, I’m— ” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not saying that, I’m… I’m saying that I’m a terrible boyfriend but… I’d like to be _your_ terrible boyfriend. If you’ll have me.”

I finally meet his eyes again. They’re so big and blue and vulnerable. I could mess with him (it would be so easy), but I don’t have the heart. “Okay,” I whisper, and I brush my hand against his cheek and pull him into a kiss.


End file.
